(Farewell to an aged brother, RIP).
His good ole days are still to be,
In football heaven, in eternity,
Looks at the face of heaven, does he,
He rewound his music, so country,
He got them all back, you see,
His wife, his old dog, his car, no needs,
Pray his good ole days are still to be......

A well-groomed matador José
Liked to moisturize with Oil of Olay
His hands lost their grip
The cape it did slip
He was gored as he cried out "¡Olé!"

the good ole days are here and now
the setting of our future nostalgia
and happy reminiscence

live life without looking back
so that one day
it’s worth turning around for

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
     (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”

The same routine
I sit and scheme
My words will set me free.
I have my mind
I have my pen so nothing can silence me.
Words are drawn on the page created one by one.
They tell the story of a broken man.
On a search for something different, something new.
Day in and day out the same routine at hand.
It's time for him to grow up
It's time to be a man.
Change is part of life and that's just how it goes.
But when life doesn't change at all that's when he begins to question it all.

Mean ole mister
Never loved no one
Held his heart on his belt
Right next to his gun
Spat tobacco
On the blood red dirt
Didnt give a ****
Who the hell he hurt
Cant call mommy
When the pen fails the sword
Cant run to daddy
With no apologetic word
Give me a hand
Ill give you an arm
Take away my eyes
And your's'll come to harm
Mean ole mister
Knows what he does
Just getting by
Anyway he must
He learned that momma
Dont give a ****
He learned that daddy
Likes his mean hand
Youve gotta be tough
Hold up your own
Youve got to make sure
Through out life youve grown
Mean ole mister
Might make you cry
But mean ole mister
Sure as hell knows why